DC2 Nightwing: Twisted Logic, Bleeding Hearts
by Esther-Channah
Summary: AU. There's a serial killer on the loose, and Dick Grayson won't rest until he's brought to justice. But will his determination prove his undoing? Rated R for dark themes and a bit of gore.
1. Chapter 1: Twisted Logic Bleeding Hearts

For those not familiar with the DC2:

DC2 is a shared continuity AU, which runs stories in a monthly, serialized format. Back in 2006, I wrote Nightwing Nos. 1 to 9, before handing over the writing reins to another ficcer. Although this issue is _technically _#28, seeing as 10-26 are elsewhere, I'm just filing this under DC2 Nightwing. You can visit the site by following the homepage link in my profile.

A few points to keep in mind for this AU:

1) Dick is roughly 20 years old. He is currently leading the Teen Titans. He and Kory are an item.

2) After learning of Bruce's death in "DC2 Nightwing Historic Continuity", Dick decided to divide his time between Gotham and New York. He has recently assumed the mantle of the Bat.

3) Tim Drake is 13 years old. He has only recently become orphaned, after his father was killed helping Batman. Bruce and Alfred have taken him in, but Bruce has steadfastly refused to take on a new partner. Alfred, however, has been giving the boy some training.

Thanks to Kathy, Debbie, Charlie and Aiyokusama for the beta!

* * *

**Twisted Logic, Bleeding Hearts**

_I have to keep remembering that I asked for this. This was my idea, every step of the way. Nobody forced me to trespass on Bruce's property. Nobody dared me to go exploring and stumble on the cave. In fact, Alfred and Bruce did everything they could to get rid of me…_

"Concentrate," Dick ordered, breaking into Tim's reverie. Tim blinked, then quickly raised his bo staff to block Dick's escrima thrust. The wood was slippery in his hands. He managed the block—barely—but the blow jarred him enough to knock him out of his combat stance. He tried to recover in time to counter the next blow, but the fire-hardened rattan stick slipped through his guard to clip his rib cage. He winced. Balancing the staff properly was a lot harder than it looked from watching martial arts movies or mytube video clips.

Dick stepped back and relaxed his grip on the sticks. "You okay?"

Tim rubbed his side gingerly. "I'm fine."

"Sure?"

He nodded quickly. "Yeah. Sure, I'm sure."

Dick tossed both escrima into the air, crossed his arms, and caught them easily. He uncrossed his arms again and slipped back into a fighting posture. "Again," he snapped.

Bruce didn't want me doing this. Sure, Alfred started teaching me the basics behind his back, but I knew better. I could've quit anytime. Instead, I jumped at the chance.

This time, the block felt like it should have. The escrima glanced off of the staff. Dick had been following a pattern with the thrusts: high, middle, low, middle, high, middle, low… which meant, Tim thought to himself, that as soon as the older youth judged that Tim had moved from comfort to complacency, he was sure to change the routine. Probably… _now!_ Tim raised the staff to counter the high block he knew was coming and…

"_Aaaagh!"_ The stick caught him a few inches below his left knee—exactly where Tim would have blocked it if he'd stuck to the drill. He fell to the mat, clutching his shin.

"Tim!" Dick was bending over him an instant later. "Are you alright? I thought for sure you'd stop that one."

Tim took a deep breath. "I'm fine. I thought you…" he shook his head. "Nothing."

Dick wasn't stupid. "This is a standard practice drill," he said quietly. "I'm trying to teach you how to do this, not trip you up." He held out a hand to help the youth to his feet. Tim got up, but his leg buckled as soon as he tried to put weight on it.

"I'm okay," Tim repeated as Dick started probing the injury. He tried not to flinch. _This _would_ have to happen right after we'd exchanged the foam-padded weapons for standard ones. At least Dick wasn't using his ironwood sticks like he does on patrol!_

A moment later, the elder youth nodded. "You're going to have a bruise, and you'll probably be sore for a few days, but it's not serious." He shook his head and strode over to the medical bay. A moment later, he was peering into the small freezer with a frown. _Where IS it? It's supposed to be—hold on… I remember… I used it the other night. I took it upstairs and… and it's probably lying on my desk—at room temperature. Blast!_

"Alfred," he spoke into the intercom, "could you bring down a cold compress, please?"

As Alfred acknowledged the request, Dick turned back to Tim. "Looks like combat practice is over for now. Let's go over some of Bruce's case notes. What can you tell me about Mad Hatter's standard MO?

I have to keep remembering that I asked for this, Tim thought glumly. ALL of it.

* * *

"How does the training progress?" Alfred asked, as he placed a steaming mug of Bavarian chocolate coffee down in front of Dick.

Dick's eyebrows shot up. Alfred had always fixed him a hot chocolate when he was feeling down. This was the adult version. He rested his hand on the side of the mug, enjoying the warmth. He shook his head with a sad smile.

"I know I'm trying to fill Batman's shoes," he said softly, "but I didn't think I'd have to turn into Bruce to do it."

"Master Dick?"

After the first few days, Dick had given up on getting Alfred to drop the formal address. He sighed audibly. "He's just a kid, Alfred. The potential is there, but he's got a long way to go. And we should have stuck to padded weapons for another couple of weeks at least! I'm driving him a lot harder than I have to. Like…"

"Like Master Bruce did with you."

Dick took a sip of the coffee. His eyes widened as the hot liquid hit his taste buds. He swallowed appreciatively. "I'm pushing him past his limits."

"As Master Bruce did with you." Alfred smiled sadly. "I remember those years well, sir. Many were the nights that, once you were safely out of earshot, I would take him to task for pushing you toward unrealistic goals. I believe I referred to them as 'impossible' goals on more than one occasion. However, Master Dick, you not only achieved those goals. You surpassed them."

"Yeah, but Tim isn't me."

"Indeed, sir. But, as you yourself stated a moment ago, the potential is there." He paused. "If I may venture a theory, sir, you are currently finding yourself torn between two desires: your desire to have a partner in your night time activities, and your desire to protect the lad until such time as you deem him ready to participate fully in the aforementioned activities. It's hardly surprising that inasmuch as you desire to restrict the boy to the sidelines for now, you simultaneously anticipate the day that he attains the requisite skills for this crusade that you have inherited."

Dick nodded slowly. "So, what do I do?" He asked. "How will I know whether he's really ready, or whether I just can't wait any longer?"

Alfred sighed. "You won't, Master Dick. Until you decide that the time has come, and you see how he acts in the field, you won't _know_. However, I suspect that as Master Tim's training proceeds, you will recognize for yourself the most auspicious time to test him."

Dick smiled. He bolted down the rest of the coffee, placed the mug noisily down on the table and got up. "I'd better get ready to patrol," he said. "But thanks for the pep talk, Alfred."

Alfred picked up the mug and carried it over to the sink. "Not at all, sir," he replied to Dick's retreating form. "Not at all."

* * *

The two shabbily dressed thugs stalked into the alley toward a prone form. "Rent's due!" one crowed. "No sleeping in our alley for free, now, Pops. Now pay up or…" He thwacked a baseball bat menacingly against the palm of his hand. His companion followed suit with a doubled-over length of chain.

The figure on the ground didn't stir.

The men advanced. "Ground's sticky," the second thug remarked. "Hey, Pops, what'd'ja do? Drop a whole bottle of booze?"

The first shook his head. "It don't smell like booze, here," he said, as he wrinkled his nose.

The smell hit the second man an instant later. He retched. "Well it stinks of something else, then! Like Pops here couldn't make it to the bathroom," he gasped. He turned to his companion. "I'm not getting any closer. Let's just leave him for now."

In answer, the other man adjusted his grip on the baseball bat. "When he pays the rent, we leave him. Just hold your nose and come on!"

"But…"

"Now!"

They walked another few steps. The figure on the ground remained motionless.

"Um… Mal," the thug with the chain said, "he's dead."

Mal hesitated for a moment. Then he shrugged. "So, we roll him over and see if he's got anything he don't need no more." He beckoned to his companion. "C'mon, help me." He put his hand down on the man's chest.

It sank several inches without meeting resistance. Cold moisture seeped upwards through the fabric. "What the f--?" He looked down with mounting horror at the depression around his hand, and the pooling liquid. Then he screamed.

"CHRIS! GET OUT OF HERE! NOW! RUN!"

The two men lurched madly out of the alley, rubber-soled shoes squelching through congealed blood and other malodorous material they did their best not to analyze.

Once out on the street, they looked at each other. "He… had no… his heart was… my hand was where it… but it wasn't there…" Mal stuttered. "I think I'm going to be sick."

Chris doubled over and promptly was.

* * *

The cowled figure four stories above waited several moments until he was sure that the thugs were gone for good. Then Batman stepped casually off the roof, and used his voluminous cape to slow his descent. When he was less than a story high, he turned a triple somersault to land on his feet in the alley below.

The stench hit him almost at once. He quickly fished a breathing filter out of a compartment on his utility belt and held it to his nose and mouth. Then he knelt to examine the corpse.

Going by the level of rigor mortis, the congealed state of the blood, and the body temperature, Dick didn't believe that the man had been dead for more than a few hours. Without a forensic examination, he couldn't be more precise than that. Dick had a feeling that Gordon would fill him in on the gory details the next time the signal went up, though. _Gory. Great turn of phrase, there, Grayson. _Gingerly, he pulled the coat open and gasped at the gaping hole in the corpse's chest. The victim's heart had been neatly removed, but the lungs, and—from what he could recall from his high school biology classes—the other organs had been left untouched.

Batman's eyes narrowed. Why take the heart? Was it a message? Or some sort of grisly trophy… or… or… _oh no…_

A memory flashed into his mind. He'd been all of twelve years old, and furious that Bruce had ordered him to sit out patrol that night. He'd argued, he'd raged, he'd demanded—until finally, Bruce had sat him down in front of the computer, called up a file and ordered him to read it.

The contents had been enough to give him nightmares for a week.

He swallowed. It was the same MO. Cornelius Stirk was back in town.

* * *

He came home to find that Tim had moved one of the ergonomic armchairs away from its normal spot at the computer console and into the middle of the training region. He was sitting there, maneuvering his bo staff through the upper body motions of a pattern dance.

Dick's eyes flickered over to the target range. A dozen R-shaped throwing knives were clustered at the center of the target. Seven had landed in the white zone, while the remaining five were in the black. He forced a smile. "You've been busy."

Tim grinned wearily. "I was doing the regular drill until my leg started hurting again. I thought maybe it wouldn't feel as bad if I got my arms aching to keep it company," he said. "I think it worked. At least the pain's gone."

"Good," Dick said. "Keep alternating hot and cold compresses for the next day or so."

He turned to the computer and called up the necessary file. "By the way," he added, "it _is_ easier in the suit. Especially with that particular cape. I think most of the underworld is convinced I'm Bruce back from the dead." _If only… _He'd insisted that Alfred only stitch up the deeper rents for ballast, while leaving the edges slashed and frayed. It added to the mythos.

"How about the commissioner?"

Dick chuckled. "You wouldn't believe how relieved he was when Batman turned up! I just told him that I appreciated his sending the cape back with Nightwing." His expression turned thoughtful. "He didn't _seem_ suspicious about it, from what I could see."

Tim brightened at that. "Cool. So, when do you think I can try going out again?" He asked. "This weekend?"

Dick was only half-listening. "Probably not," he said. "You've still got a ways to go."

"All the more reason I need the experience," Tim said. "I did okay the other night, didn't I?"

"That's not the point." The file was open now and just as horrific as Dick remembered. He'd hoped that in the intervening years, the words would have lost their power to shock him. They hadn't. _What kind of sick son of a…_ He hesitated. Bruce had tried to shield him from this at first. It was only when Dick had insisted, that his mentor had shown him the file. Except that, instead of discussing the matter with him, Bruce had simply told him to read it and left to patrol. Dick had absorbed the file's contents on his own.

He paused, torn between the desire to protect his new partner from certain harsh realities, and the realization that Tim would discover these things for himself sooner rather than later. "It's too dangerous, right now," he said finally. "Put the staff down and come here. I need you to read this over."

Tim obeyed curiously. "Cornelius Stirk?" He asked. "Never heard of him."

"Yeah, he's a few years before your time," Dick nodded. "Keep reading."

"Okay," Tim complied. "Hmmm… so he's a metahuman. Low-level empathy," he said thoughtfully. "He can't actually _make _you feel something but he can _encourage_ you to. It sounds a lot like hypnosis. Ok, that can be a disadvantage for us… but it doesn't explain why Bruce has him lumped in with the most dangerou-oh… my… G—"As Tim read the words on the monitor his expression shifted from concern to disgust to raw horror. "He…" Tim spoke finally. "He scares his victims to death, carves out their hearts and… and _eats_ them?"

"Now you know why I want you to sit this one out," Dick said quietly. "You're not ready to face him yet. And Stirk has to be stopped fast." He sighed. "So it looks like I'm handling this one solo."

Tim gave a slight nod. He turned back to the dossier. His jaw dropped. "He scares them to death because he thinks that stress hormones… make the hearts _taste_ better? I think I want to puke."

"So did the punks who found one of his victims tonight." Dick's voice was grim. "Read over the file. Learn it. Because I might need your help behind the scenes before all this is done. And I haven't faced Stirk before," he admitted. "That could cost me when I finally do meet up with him." He forced a smile. "You said you wanted to watch my back. Do it. But do it from the cave."

Tim allowed himself a brief answering smile, but it was obvious that his thoughts were still on the dossier.

* * *

"We got an ID on the victim," Gordon told him the next night. "Matthew Stoat, aged 38, vanished from a group home upstate about six months ago. Appears he'd been living on the streets since then. We've booked him for disturbing the peace a few times but he was harmless. M.E. said he'd been dead about six hours when you found him."

He snorted. "Now as for those two toughs who stumbled on the body first, they've already confessed to a spate of burglaries that took place in that area over the last couple of weeks. Seems they didn't stop running until they met up with a couple of my people."

Batman grunted. "Good."

"Uh huh. Now," his tone grew serious, "as for the sicko responsible for—"

"Stirk," Batman interrupted.

Gordon nodded grimly. "It looks like it. The last I heard, he was in Vegas." He shook his head. "Stoat was actually the third victim to turn up. We'd managed to keep a lid on the others. Looks like Stirk's waiting about three or four days between kills." He lifted his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. "And, while he seems to be concentrating on Robbinsville and Cape Carmine, there's no pattern to where he's leaving the remains. So far, we've found one body at a burned out warehouse and a second floating in the Sprang. Now, Stoat's turned up in an alley." He sniffed. "What we haven't found out yet is how long he keeps them alive. He's going after vagrants, recluses… people who won't be missed for awhile. For all we know, he's got dozens locked away somewhere." He stifled a shudder. "This city is full of forgotten people. Most of them would probably have to be gone for months before anyone would start to worry." He sighed. "And of course, the pressure is on to divert manpower toward solving Bristol break-ins and downtown drive-bys. The homeless?" He shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

"If they're going to die, they had better do it and decrease the surplus population?"

Gordon looked up sharply. "Somehow, I never figured on hearing _you_ misquote Dickens." There was a warning note in his voice. "It seems a bit out of character."

Dick started. Had Gordon guessed after all?

When the commissioner spoke again, though, his tone was all business once more. "Unfortunately, that _is_ the attitude I've been running into." He turned away. "All of which means that this is one crime I can't make a priority, even though it ought to be. Of course, if you…"

His voice trailed off as he pivoted back and discovered that he was alone on the rooftop. He sighed. The disappearing act was something that he found himself disliking more and more as time went on.

* * *

The next few weeks seemed to fly by. Dividing his time between New York and Gotham was taking its toll. Luckily, the Titans had become enough of a team by now that they had learned to anticipate one another's actions and react accordingly. Had they still been looking to Dick to guide their every move, things could have gone very wrong, very fast.

Six more bodies bearing the earmarks of Stirk's handiwork surfaced. Each one was another reminder that Batman had left behind large boots to fill. He _had_ to stop the man somehow. And he would have to do so without Robin's backup.

* * *

"Okay, Tim. Your turn." Dick readied his escrima as the youth charged toward him, his staff raised in position for an overhead strike.

Dick crossed his sticks and blocked high. One escrima shot out to strike Tim's hand and knock it clear of the staff. The second landed first on Tim's lower back and then to the back of his knee. Tim fell forward. "Damn!"

"Alright?"

Tim got up. "Yeah, just my dignity. I thought I'd have more of an advantage with a long weapon."

"You do," Dick said shortly. "But you're—"

"Lacking in experience," Tim cut him off. "_Tell_ me about it." He got back into position. "Let's try this again."

This time, he struck low. Dick blocked, but Tim managed to evade the escrima before Dick could use it to wrest his grip from the staff. A rapid exchange of blows and blocks followed before Dick rushed forward.

Now Tim was at a disadvantage—the staff was too long to properly maneuver in close quarters. Instinct told him that he needed to back up out of Dick's range. Something in him rebelled at giving up ground, even temporarily. He fought it down and retreated a few paces. Dick followed, pressing his advantage.

It was hard to move fast going backwards. Tim stumbled and Dick was on him like a shot. The youth dropped to the ground and, as Dick leaned over him, kicked both feet into the older boy's chest.

Dick fell back, gasping, as Tim regained his feet. He recovered quickly, blocked the next blow from the staff, and the sparring resumed.

It was almost another three minutes—an eternity in combat—before Tim's staff spun out of his hand and the youth found himself massaging his sore knuckles.

Dick grinned. "_Much_ better. Especially that kick."

Tim smiled back, guardedly. "Not exactly tournament regulations, though."

"One thing you'll notice once you hit the streets: there aren't too many referees making sure you're keeping to the rules." He clapped Tim warmly on the shoulder. "You did fine."

"How are things going with Stirk?" Tim was instantly sorry he'd asked.

Dick's features seemed to droop. "They found another body down at Miller Pier," he admitted. "Underage hooker. According to Gordon, she'd been high on cocaine a few times in the past when they arrested her. Except that her body turned up clean. No drugs in her whatsoever."

Tim blinked. "You think he…?"

"Kept her long enough to get the stuff out of her system before he killed her?" Dick's voice was bitter. "Oh yeah. It usually takes about two days for that to happen. Cops don't know how long she was missing since nobody actually filed a report." His lip curled sarcastically. "But, the last time anyone remembered seeing her was well over two weeks ago." He turned away abruptly. "I should have caught him by now. Bruce would have."

"You don't know that for sure," Tim said. "You'll get him. I mean, he's bound to slip up soon, right?"

Dick shook his head. "Yeah. It'd just be nice if I could catch him because _I_ was doing something right instead of waiting for _him_ to do something wrong." He sighed. "I'm going to grab a quick shower and suit up. It'll be dark in an hour."

* * *

Two nights later, Tim was sitting in his room and trying to come up with a mnemonic to help him memorize the symptoms of Spanish fly poisoning. _Vomiting, collapse, skin irritations… hmmm… 'very clever… um… sparrows? Nah. Very clever scholars infer… Okay, that's actually not so bad. What's the next symptom?_ He looked at the text again and groaned. _How am I supposed to work in 'blister formation on the mucous membranes'? Argh! And ewww!_

Dick strode into the room without knocking. "Get dressed," he ordered as he tossed the Kevlar-Nomex suit and tights at Tim.

Tim caught them one-handed without thinking about it. He then lifted his other hand to pluck the mask and gloves out of mid-air.

Dick set the boots down just inside the room.

"You mean it?" Tim asked excitedly.

"Stirk's not the only problem in Gotham right now," Dick said tersely. "Word on the street is that a smuggling ring is trying to move a shipment of exotic animal parts into the country and using Gotham as their main port of entry. If my source is good, the _Zhen Heu_ will be making a clandestine arrival at the Dixon Docks. I want you to intercept it and make sure the cargo gets turned over to the authorities."

Tim's eyes lit up. "Well, alright!"

"Don't get too carried away," Dick warned. "And remember, you're not out there alone." He handed Tim a small radio. "Keep that in your belt. The first frequency is me. The second is the manor. Alfred's usually listening. The third is the Teen Titans. You shouldn't need to contact them, but if it's an emergency do it. The fourth is police band. It's 'ears only' unless I say otherwise." He took a deep breath. "The fifth frequency will get you through to the Justice League. Don't use it." At Tim's double-take, Dick clarified. "If it's big enough for them to get involved, they'll be in Gotham before you know they need to be."

Tim nodded his comprehension. "What about you?"

"Robbinsville. Stirk's about due to dump another body."

But Dixon Docks was in the southwest corner of the city. And Robbinsville was nearly forty-five minutes northeast of it. "Shouldn't I be backing you…"

"Too dangerous. Show me how well you handle the smugglers, and I'll think about it for next time." He closed the door before Tim could protest further. He had enough doubts plaguing him already without the boy adding more fuel to the fire.

* * *

Batman saw the rapidly-spreading pool of dark liquid emerging from under the pile of fertilizer bags on the loading dock next to the warehouse. The bags weren't light, he thought to himself. Now how would Stirk have…? As he drew closer, things became clearer. The sacks had been lying on an outdoor shelf some five feet over the dock. Someone had yanked free its supports, causing its cargo to slide off.

He clenched his teeth in fury. If the blood was still pooling, the body hadn't been here long. Stirk might still be nearby. He was about to start searching when a thought hit him._ What if it isn't Stirk, this time? What if this is something totally unrelated, and whoever's under there is still alive and in need of medical help? Granted, the odds are slim… but I don't exactly know where Stirk is right now. And if whoever is under here is still okay, they might not be by the time an ambulance gets here._ He fastened a breathing filter over his mouth and nose to protect him from the stench, raced up the loading ramp to the bags and started hefting them away.

_Please be alive, whoever you are._ It was both a plea and a prayer. He shoved away another sack, uncovering the victim's torso. There was a gaping wound in the chest. Dick stifled a groan.

And then, he heard a heavy tread behind him, and his muscles seized up in a moment of blinding agony. He struggled to leap up, to twist away—anything! But his body wouldn't obey. He slumped to the ground on jellied limbs, struggling to remain conscious as his thoughts seemed to freeze. It was like trying to think in fog… in syrup. He couldn't move. He heard the footsteps again. Then he felt another jolt, and a third, and a fourth, and he couldn't keep from moaning.

Someone took hold of his arms and crossed his wrists behind his back. He felt a quick pressure through his gloves as something encircled them once and was pulled tightly, securing him. He was rolled onto his side, and a hand reached in front of his face and tore the breathing mask off.

"You've been spending a lot of time in these parts, Batman, yes, yes you have," a voice chanted in a soft singsong. "I'd initially intended to stay concealed until you'd moved on, but it occurred to me that if you haven't given up yet, you probably won't, no, not you."

Dick gasped as the taser sent another fifty thousand volts into him.

"So sorry to have to keep doing that, sir, but we can't have you recovering before you're properly packaged for transport, now, no we mustn't," the voice continued.

A band passed once about his knees, and then constricted. Plastic tie, from the feel of it, Dick thought numbly. He felt another one loop around his ankles.

"Normally, I'd have simply waited you out," the voice said soothingly, "but then, I realized that for you to come out here night after night, even knowing, yes knowing what I can do…"

A figure scuttled forward to kneel in front of him, skinny and bald with eyes like saucers. Those eyes held his gaze, mesmerized him, and stripped him of any desire or ability to turn away. They seemed to swallow him up and squelch any and all thoughts.

Still keeping his focus on the prone vigilante, Cornelius Stirk continued, "…requires a great heart indeed. Yes, it does." Leisurely, he unscrewed a small vial and spilled its liquid contents onto a cloth handkerchief. Then Stirk slapped the cloth down firmly on Batman's face, as he asked with perverse gentleness, "How can I possibly resist the temptation?"

As the drug took effect and his eyelids closed, Dick felt himself being dragged to the edge of the loading ramp and rolled unceremoniously off the concrete walkway, into a large cart. He could smell rubber—the cart was probably lined with it—and blood and…

A tarp covered him completely as his world went dark.

* * *

Stopping the shipment had been easier than Tim had thought. He'd barely had to show himself. The smugglers hadn't been expecting trouble. A few flash-bang grenades and throwing knives, and most had been relieved to surrender to the Gotham Harbor patrol vessel that had swung by to investigate the sound-and-light show. Their contacts at the dock had tried to run for it—until a few blows of a bo staff had changed their mind.

Afterwards, Tim checked his watch in disbelief. The entire incident—from the boat's arrival at the pier to the arrest of the last suspect—had taken a grand total of twenty-seven minutes. Not even a half-hour, Tim thought to himself. But it had been a _long_ twenty-seven minutes.

"Mission accomplished, Batman," he said into the communicator. "How about you?"

There was no answer.

"Robin to Batman, come in Batman."

No answer.

_Keep calm_, Tim told himself. _If he's in the middle of a fight, he's not exactly going to tell whoever he's fighting with to hang on a minute so he can respond. Or he could be underground or some other place where the signal can't get through. There's no reason to panic._

Dick was fine. He could handle himself. He was Batman, after all.

_Bruce was Batman. Dad was with the DEO. They could handle themselves, too. Until the one time they couldn't._

He was letting his imagination run away from him. Dick was fine. He might be on the roof of GCPD, right now. Maybe he was in the middle of a car chase and didn't want to have a conversation—not even if the phone was on hands-free.

_Maybe he's in trouble._

And maybe Tim was panicking because he'd already lost too many people in too short a time and didn't want to add another name to the list. He ducked into a secluded area of the port before he punched the frequency for the manor.

"Alfred, this is Robin. Has Batman checked in? Okay, thanks. Yeah, I'm okay. I just can't raise him. Look, if he calls in, tell him I stopped the shipment and I'll meet him at the north end of the Sprang Bridge—unless he tells me differently." The bridge spanned the Sprang River between Robbinsville and Coventry. It was far enough from Stirk's known dumping grounds that Dick shouldn't feel the need to warn him off, yet close enough that he might be of some use if Dick did need his help.

"Thanks," he said, in response both to Alfred's congratulations on taking down the smugglers, and to his promise to relay the message. He switched off the communicator.

Nearly an hour later, he was at the rendezvous point. There was no sign of Batman. Now, what was he supposed to do?

Calling the manor would only worry Alfred. If Dick had checked in, then he would have called Tim by now. And Tim didn't think it was time to call in the Teen Titans quite yet. Cautiously, he headed into Robbinsville, keeping an eye out for the Batmobile.

* * *

He found it soon enough. After ascertaining that Batman was nowhere in sight, he took to the rooftops to look for suspicious activity—heck, any activity.

"Batman?" He whispered into the communicator again. He didn't expect an answer, and didn't receive one.

He moved more carefully now. Stirk was around. Batman had warned him not to come here. He couldn't afford any mistakes.

He found the body, still half-buried under fertilizer bags. Someone had been trying to shift them, it seemed. Why would they have stopped? At first, he tried not to look at the victim's torso. Then he took a deep breath. The stench made him recoil and he fumbled for his breathing filter. As he slipped it on, he noticed an identical one lying on the ground nearby.

His heart began to pound as he stooped to pick it up. In the light of the nearby street lamp, he could see the faint outline of a bat insignia etched into the fabric. He examined the ground carefully.

_He was kneeling down, and then something happened. He fell? _No. There were signs of a struggle—he recognized them, now that he knew what to look for. Dick had to have been taken by surprise. Taken… where?

He dashed to the loading ramp. On the ground below, he could see wheel treads, but not from a car or a bike. It looked like a cart of some sort. There was a puddle on the ground that looked like blood._ And going by the imprint of the wheels, the cart hadn't gone away empty. Unless I'm misreading and the lighter trail is the fresher one. Maybe somebody was delivering something here. _He looked back at the corpse. _Or delivering someone!_

Great. So either someone had come with an empty cart and left with a full one, come with the body and left with Batman, or dropped off the body and gone. If he was reading the signs right, that somebody was Stirk. And he might have Dick. Was it time to call the Titans, now?

Tim considered the idea, then rejected it. Dick was Batman. He was probably freeing himself this very second. He'd be fine.

But Tim was going to follow the tire tracks, anyway. Just in case.

* * *

Consciousness returned to him slowly. The air was chill and damp, with a dankness to it that told Dick that he was probably underground. He seemed to be lying on his back on something softer than the floor, but lumpy. He couldn't move. It wasn't just that he was stiff and sore and ached all over. He couldn't move his arms or legs. He tried again. This time, he succeeded in drawing his knees toward him, but he couldn't feel his arms at all. _Because you've been lying on them so long they've gone numb, _he realized. His legs were still bound together at knee and ankle. _Still? When did that happen? The last thing I remember was…_

"Bat, Bat, welcome to my flat

I'll give you a slice of bacon

And when I bake

Your heart I shall take

If I am not mistaken."

Stirk repeated the rhyme several times as he busied himself at a decrepit-looking stove, chuckling all the while. He dipped a ladle into a large stockpot, blew on it, and took a sip of the liquid. He closed his eyes as a beatific smile spread across his face. "Excellent," he whispered. "Simply excellent."

He glanced at the mattress. "Just woke up, did you? Yes, you did." He danced merrily over to his captive. "You must be cramping up like that," he sighed. "Well, a bit of comfort won't affect the dish's seasonings, I don't think."

Dick blinked. "Wh-what?" His voice was nearly a croak.

Stirk was already rolling him onto his side. "Better?" He asked, patting the vigilante's shoulder. "Oh, wait! Wait, I have the very thing, yes I do-oo!" He raced somewhere outside Dick's field of vision and returned a moment later with a battered cushion. He placed it gently under Dick's head. "Now how's that, mmm?"

When Batman didn't respond, his captor frowned. "Oh, don't get all huffy about this. It's not as though I like being this way, you understand. No I don't," he snapped.

"Really?" Batman's frank disbelief spoke volumes.

"Yes. Really! If it weren't for this… disease I suffer from, I'd _never_ choose such a miserable diet. Who would? Do you think I don't realize that it makes me an outcast from civil society? Oh yes, it does!" Stirk was angry now, and his words fell rapidly from his lips. "But the only treatment that alleviates my… condition… my… madness, yes, madness, _is _this diet." His expression turned pleading. "I have no choice, Batman. I don't enjoy my insanity, no I don't. And to stave it off, I must keep to this… controversial fare."

_Wholly twisted reasoning_, Dick thought. And yet, it actually made a perverse amount of sense, when filtered through the worldview of a madman. "And the way you torture your victims before you kill them?" He asked.

"Do you really think I _enjoy_ the taste?" Stirk demanded. "At least this way, the meat is palatable."

"Ever heard of ketchup?"

Stirk began to laugh softly. "Ketchup. How… refreshing. Oh, I could enjoy having you around," he said, "yes I could." His expression turned thoughtful. "I'm told that large rodents can make fine pets," he said. "Rabbits, for example. And then one day, when they've been fed enough… well, they have another purpose, as you know." His expression hardened. "But bats don't stay long in captivity, no they don't. They tend to escape, given half the chance. And," his voice grew menacing, "we… _mustn't_… have… THAT!"

He stooped down, brought his hands to Dick's cheeks, and forced the vigilante's eyes to meet his own.

"I think it's time to start the seasoning process."


	2. Chapter 2: Heart of a Hero

Thanks to Kathy, Debbie, and Aiyokusama for the beta!

**Heart of a Hero**

He felt like he was drowning. His lungs screamed for air as his limbs spasmed. Drowning? No… he could smell something burning from afar. Chemicals in the air… this wasn't a kitchen fire nor a barbecue. But…

"Batman? Nightwing? Dick? You awake?"

He stirred sluggishly.

"Sorry about the restraints." Kid Flash was looking down at him. "You woke up a few times. It… you weren't… it was pretty bad."

That was when Dick realized that he was strapped into the bed. "What happened?" He asked.

Wally bit his lip. "You don't remember."

"No," Dick said. "The last thing I remember, I was in Gotham. What…"

He gasped as Wally moved away from the open window. The view from his bed looked out on New York's East River, and would have encompassed Titans Tower—except that the tower was a smoldering ruin. It looked, Dick reflected, the way Gotham had right after Steppenwolf's attack. He turned to Wally, stricken. "How?"

"Gordanians," Wally said bleakly. "Almost two weeks ago. They took us completely by surprise—grabbed Kory before we knew what was happening. I took off to Gotham to look for you so I don't know all of what happened next, but when we came back it was…" He turned away abruptly.

Dick did a double take. Was Wally… crying?

When the other Titan spoke again, his voice was steady. "I couldn't find you right away. Donna called on Roy for help. He came. I looked for you for two days before I found you in some condemned dump in East Gotham. You were in pretty bad shape. I thought maybe you should sit this one out, but you insist…" He broke off. "Anyway when we got back, it was all over. Apparently, a bunch of folks blamed the Titans for the alien invasion and figured, if they took us down, the ship might leave without blasting the rest of the city."

Wally let out a shuddering breath. "We saw Dagon pinned to a wall with a stake through his heart. Terra tried to hold off the mob by pulling up the earth under the Tower to keep them back, but they kept coming from all sides and they launched choppers. She… the strain… she couldn't take it." He shook his head. "We found her buried in the rubble. As for Raven…" Wally broke off for a moment, as though fumbling for words.

"You and I were so… when we saw Dagon and Terra… what happened to them… we were in shock. We never looked up or saw the ship firing on us. I remember, Raven grabbed us and teleported. Something went wrong when we were on the Astral plane. I heard—no—I _felt_ her shriek. And there was this… pull… like something else had latched onto us. Suddenly, everything went ice-cold—and _slow_. As fast as I can move, it felt like that thing was pulling us back in the opposite direction. It was like trying to run through glue or chewing gum. And then… there was this shove… and you and I were back here… but Raven wasn't. And she hasn't been seen since.

Dick's heart began to pound. "Vic? Donna? Gar?"

He looked away. "Vic took a direct hit from the alien ship. His metal skin… melted but he didn't die." Wally's voice grew hoarse. "He was begging us to help him or put him out of his misery, he didn't care which. I brought what was left of him to his father. Dr. Stone thinks he can fix him."

"But Dr. Stone…" Dick let his voice trail off. After what he'd tried to do to Vic, Wally had taken him there?

"It was the only thing I could think of, damn it! You were losing it. After you found out they'd taken Gar and Donna too, I mean."

Dick's heart began to pound. "Wh-what?"

Wally nodded. "Roy sent them to rescue Kory. Donna wanted to wait for you to get back, because you're usually good at coming up with a plan; but Roy said there was no time—that the ship might leave Earth's orbit any second. So… they went. And the ship left with them onboard." Wally closed his eyes. "If they're alive, they're probably being auctioned off somewhere on the other side of the galaxy."

"Wally…" Dick cast about trying to find something to say.

"Well that's what the Gordanians are, aren't they? Slavers?" Wally was nearly shouting. "Damn it, Dick! We were depending on you! We needed you! We trusted you to get us out of this! My G-d, I ran back to Gotham with Kory's screams echoing in my ears. She was calling for _you_! I…" He turned away. "Damn. Sorry, it's just… we're the only ones left."

Dick inhaled slowly. "What happened to Roy?"

Wally drew a deep shuddering breath, walked over to the curtained screen that separated Dick's bed from the rest of the room and jerked it back. Roy lay in the bed next to his, hooked up to so many machines and wires he seemed to be almost as much a construct as Vic.

"He couldn't take it," Wally said softly. "When the ship left, he… I found him in an alley in Greenwich Village. The docs think… he's been clean for so long, the amount of smack he used to take was too strong for him to handle, at this point."

He wasn't hearing this. "Roy… OD'd?"

"They don't know if he'll ever wake up. They've been trying to reach Green Arrow for the last few days, but no dice."

"I should have been here," Dick said. "It might have made a difference."

"It WOULD have made a difference," Wally snapped.

Dick's eyes narrowed. "Maybe," he said slowly. "If it had actually happened."

"What?"

"Wally… what hospital is this?"

"What?"

"Answer the question, Wally. Where am I?"

Silence.

Dick nodded. "That's what I thought." With grim determination, he rolled over, oblivious to the restraints on the bed as he passed through them. "I'm still in your basement, aren't I?" He demanded. "You're trying dig up my worst fears, Stirk… and you're not doing a bad job. Of course I'm afraid that some disaster is going to strike the people I care about the most when I'm not around to help fight. But you goofed." He laughed. "You're working blind, Cornelius. You don't know exactly what you're making me hallucinate; you're just trying to lock onto an emotional state and get me to fill in the blanks." _But there isn't a single hospital in New York that looks out on Titans' Tower. Once I realized that, I knew this couldn't be real._

Kid Flash smiled an ear-splitting smile. He began to laugh, even as his physique dwindled, his hairline receded, and he reverted once more to a spindly caricature. He rubbed his hands gleefully.

"Excellent!" Stirk exclaimed. "I'd been hoping for a bit of resistance." He placed his index and middle fingers against Dick's carotid artery and nodded blissfully. "The longer the dish marinates, the sweeter the end result." He snapped his fingers. "Have to keep things moving properly, though, I think, yes."

He picked up a scalpel and sliced deftly through Batman's Kevlar sleeve, leaving one arm bare from shoulder to elbow. Still smiling and nodding, Stirk leaped up and capered over to a kitchen cabinet, from which he extracted a long flat box.

Dick's eyes widened as he saw Stirk open the box and remove a wicked-looking syringe.

"Drugs?" He spat out in disgust.

Stirk made a rude noise. "Don't be silly," he scoffed. "They're far too crude, and most would only make you taste sour. No, my good sir," he said as he located a vein on Dick's arm and swabbed the area with an alcohol pad. He brought the syringe closer. "This is _tenderizer_."

Dick began to strain frantically at his bonds as Stirk watched approvingly. "Now, that's more like it," he said as he administered the injection. With almost clinical detachment, he checked Dick's pulse again, then ran his fingertips gently along the major artery. "Yes, you're coming along very nicely, indeed."

* * *

Robin stepped up on the curb and sighed. The muddy footprints and wheel treads continued for another few feet before the trail ended. He wouldn't be able to follow it on cement—although it was a safe bet that, if he was following Stirk, the man would be sticking to the side streets, away from the high-traffic areas. That was a plus—it meant that he still had a chance at tracking him. He turned his attention to the other prints—the ones that were leading away from the sidewalk and out to the shoreline. If Stirk's current hideout was anywhere other than the riverbank… then the soil from wherever he was based might be different from what was around here. Thoughtfully, Robin reached into his utility belt for his scanner. Peering through it, he was disappointed, but not altogether surprised when he failed to detect anything unusual on the infrared setting. When he switched to ultraviolet, however, things changed dramatically. The tracks were _glowing_.

Heart pounding, Tim used a set of tweezers to pick up a small sample of the soil. It was a good thing that WayneTech was on the cutting edge of miniaturization tools. The analyzer fit comfortably in the palm of his hand. It wasn't much bigger than a cell phone. He smiled. Sand, silt, and organic material were to be expected in many soil extractions… but the mica was an added bonus. It showed up with dramatic effect under ultraviolet light.

When he looked at the rest of the muddy expanse that he'd just crossed, he saw a few glints here and there, but the mineral concentration seemed to be considerably less. _So the soil I'm analyzing _isn't _something he picked up along the shore—it's something he tracked here. And mica is commonly found in two places,_ he realized with growing excitement. _Mines… and the places that process the ores!_ He raised his eyes westward. The EPA had finally shut down the original Gotham Coal Works building almost a year ago, but the plant, just over the municipal boundary that separated Robbinsville from Cape Carmine, was still standing empty and abandoned. _Maybe it wasn't so empty after all_, Tim thought, as he headed off to follow up the only decent lead he had.

* * *

The police commissioner picked up on the second ring. "Gordon speaking," he said. As he heard the voice on the other end, he leaned forward unconsciously. "_Who_ is this?"

Robin forced himself to sound more confident than he felt. "I think you heard me, Commissioner. I know where Cornelius Stirk is, and I think Batman's in trouble." He swallowed. Calling in the GCPD was a risk, but he thought it was better than contacting the Teen Titans. If they came in, and Dick didn't need help, it would be embarrassing. If the police showed up and Batman had the situation under control, Robin could always play it as though he'd wanted the cops on hand to take Stirk into custody post-haste.

"I, I think they're both at the old Coal Works. Could you send units out there right away?" To his horror, his voice shifted in the middle of his speech, causing the question to come out in a pre-teen squeak. _Well, THAT was sure to win Gordon's confidence…_

As though the commissioner had read his mind, the voice on the other end grew hard with suspicion. "Listen, 'Robin', _if_ that's who you are—at this moment, there are five other known Arkham inmates currently at large. There's a four-car collision on the Aparo, a riot in Otisburg, and some idiot in a dynamite vest standing in the middle of Monolith Square! I can't pull men away on a thousand-to-one shot. Meanwhile, if you _are_ who you claim to be, then don't worry. I'm sure Batman will be fine."

There was a click as a receiver returned to its cradle, followed by a dial tone. Robin stared at the receiver in his own hand for a moment, and then replaced it on the hook and exited the phone booth. It looked like it really _was_ up to him after all.

* * *

Dick kept his eyes closed tightly and fought to stay calm. _Whatever I see and hear, if it's not Stirk's lair, I'm hallucinating. None of this is real. I'm tied up in a basement in Gotham somewhere. I'm not in New York. I'm not watching Joker beat up Batgirl. I'm not dying of coral snake venom. This is all an illusion. I'm…_

"…A disgrace!" The voice startled him, shattered his concentration. His eyes snapped open. Batman was standing before him, looking down in disgust. "Look at yourself. You let yourself get blindsided like some amateur, got yourself captured, and you _still_ haven't been able to work yourself loose." The cowled figure shook his head. "Unbelievable."

"Nice to see you, too." Dick grinned. "I knew you'd…"

"I trusted you to carry on for me after I was gone," Batman continued. "What was I thinking? I should have called in Barbara… I should have called in _Jason_ before you!"

"Bruce!" He felt himself start to sweat. He knew he'd messed up royally in letting Stirk get the drop on him, but hearing the words tumbling from his mentor's lips shocked him.

"You actually believed that you could fill _my _shoes?" Batman scoffed. "It'll be a miracle if there's anything left of the city by year's end. You should just hand the keys over to the Joker, right now."

"No!" He protested. "I've been trying so hard, doing the best I can…"

"And it's not good enough!"

"What more do you want from me?"

"More."

The harsh words rained down upon him with near-physical force, giving full voice to the fears he'd been suppressing for weeks. _The fears he'd been…_

Under the cowl, his eyebrows drew together. "I _never_ believed that I could fill your shoes," he gritted. "Until _you_ convinced me." He smiled. Stirk was upping the ante, trying to dig deeper, find darker fears. But interwoven with his fear of failure was his determination to overcome that fear.

He smiled. "Sorry, Stirk. Nice try."

The illusion fell away, as it had each previous time. Dick clenched his teeth as Stirk stooped forward again to check his pulse.

The little man patted his shoulder, and grinned with satisfaction as Dick tried to shift away. "It's getting faster," he teased. "Little by little, drib by drab, slowly but surely, your flavor is improving." He placed his other hand over Dick's heart and clucked approvingly. "How fortunate that nobody knows where you are," he continued. "The longer the meat marinates, the sweeter the final result, after all." His eyes opened very wide. "Why, we could be at this for days!"

Despite the chill air, under the cowl, Dick felt cold perspiration beading his forehead. There had to be a way out of this mess, but damned if he could see it.

* * *

The old Gotham Coal Works was farther away than Tim had thought. The general topography and East Gotham skyline contributed to the illusion that the building was only a block or so away. Tim figured two to three miles was more accurate. It would've taken him close to forty-five minutes on foot, he judged, as he fired off his grapnel. Luckily, he had other means at his disposal. With the de-cel cables, he was clearing half a block with every swing.

He tried not to think about what would happen if he lost his grip. The rooftops here weren't really _that_ high—two, three stories maximum—but they were high enough. He glanced down without thinking, and gulped as he clutched the line more tightly.

He took a deep breath and jumped off the next rooftop. Momentum carried him forward, until his feet landed surely on a second-story ledge. He breathed his relief. The cave wasn't the best place to practice this sort of skill, although he and Dick had been practicing on the trapeze. Unlike combat training, the art of swinging from rooftop to rooftop was truly best learned _by_ swinging from rooftop to rooftop.

He took another breath, retracted his jumpline, and fired it off again. He gave it an experimental tug to make sure that it was secure, then leaped once more—this time keeping his eye on his destination, rather than the pavement.

This was it. He was standing on the south side of Sable Street, directly across from the Coal Works. He lowered himself carefully to the pavement, and crossed over. He was now in Cape Carmine. This was the place. He was almost one hundred per cent sure. There was just one more test to run.

He took out the tweezers again, stooped to the base of the chain-link fence and picked up a soil sample. When he compared the analysis report to the one he'd taken at the docks, he found a correlation of ninety-nine-point-one per cent. Tim closed his eyes. He'd been right.

Robin squared his shoulders and set about finding a way onto the grounds. The fence was topped by barbed wire. He could probably still get over it if he had to, but there had to be an easier path. He doubted that Stirk was doing much climbing. Sure enough, on the far side of the lot, away from the eyes of most passers-by, someone had taken wire-cutters to the fence and removed an expanse several feet wide. The ground was broken up by footprints and wheel treads. That clinched it. Stirk was here… and Batman was in trouble… and Robin was out of his league. It was time to bring in the cavalry.

He pulled out his communicator to signal the Titans.

Static.

Disbelieving, he tried the frequency again.

Static.

He tried the manor.

Static.

Either he was in a dead zone, or his battery needed a recharge, but it looked like he _was_ the cavalry.

Yep. Batman was really in trouble now.

* * *

"_But Dad, I heard them say…"_

"_Dickie, I checked the ropes before the show started. They're fine."_

"_No. You gotta check 'em again!"_

"_Dick. Relax. You've been doing this act for months, there's no reason to be nervous."_

The adult Dick Grayson shuddered. "This is an illusion," he said aloud. "It isn't real. It happened years ago and I don't need to watch it again."

Despite himself, he cringed as he felt the dry, papery fingertips at his throat once more.

"You _fear_ to watch it again," Stirk chuckled. "You fear that this will be the moment when your resistance crumbles, when you can no longer control your panic, when your heart will soften and sweeten in its own juices! Eh? Eh?" He poked Dick just below his ribcage, smiling congenially all the time. "It's a rational fear, yes it is," he nodded, as he patted Dick's throat possessively. "Those nearly always prove the most effective. Given their plausibility, there's no need for me to expend any great effort to induce them. I merely encourage you to dwell upon them."

Stirk squatted down and locked eyes with Batman again. "You do realize that it's only a matter of time before you succumb," he said.

His voice was soothingly hypnotic. Dick shook his head vigorously, as though he could stop the words from taking hold.

"I'm not a cruel man," he remonstrated. "Simply a determined one. It genuinely pains me to see you struggle so hard, knowing the futility of it. I could almost forgo the proper flavoring and put you out of your misery." He rose up and brushed himself off. "Almost." He smiled. "Your reaction to the tenderizer was better than I'd hoped," he said. "And since you may reach your peak seasoning before too long, I think I'd best administer a second dose now—before it's too late."

So saying, he skipped over to the counter to pick up another needle. He walked back toward the mattress, waving the instrument mockingly before his captive.

A golden blur flew by, embedding itself in the syringe's plastic tube with a loud pop. Stirk stared stupidly at the R-shaped shuriken that now protruded from the needle. The force of the impact had half-shorn away the upper third of the syringe's hollow tube.

Batman groaned as his heart began to pound faster. What was Tim doing here? How had he found the place? He'd told the boy that Stirk wasn't in his league—why…? This _had _to be another illusion… He hoped.

* * *

Tim didn't have a real plan of action beyond keeping the needle away from Batman's arm, any way he could. Before he'd even registered that his first knife had accomplished that, Robin had flung another five blades and was fumbling for more.

One sliced Stirk's cheek as it skimmed past. The villain barely seemed aware of it. Three more slashed his loose-fitting clothing.

The fifth embedded itself in the mattress, barely an inch from where Batman lay. Robin flinched. That was a little too close. He had to move the action away from that part of the room, or Batman might be in as much danger from his junior partner as he was from Stirk.

Luckily, Stirk seemed only too happy to oblige. He darted toward a small cabinet set into the far wall and pulled out something that looked like a cross between a gun and a hair dryer. Electricity crackled across the muzzle.

Robin swallowed. The Kevlar wasn't going to afford much protection from that thing. He pulled out his collapsible bo staff and assumed the starting position.

_He's not going to charge me. He doesn't have to. He just has to pull that trigger._ Tim mentally reviewed what he knew about the weapon. It fired two darts into the skin and ran a current. A conductive suit could counter it—but, of course, he wasn't wearing one of those. Statistically speaking, an insulated suit was more useful to the crusade. _Crusade… mission… When did I start thinking about what I'm doing in _those_ terms?_ A bulletproof vest sometimes worked too, but they were stiff, cumbersome, and hard to maneuver with. It was for that reason that the costumes were made of a lighter, more flexible Kevlar weave. They worked almost as well as the heavier body armor, but the material had a few disadvantages—reduced invulnerability to tasers, darts, and other sharp projectiles being among them.

Stirk fired as Robin dove. The newest boy wonder felt a sharp sting as one dart pierced his arm. He sliced at the wire with the shuriken in his hand, before he processed that the other dart had missed its target. He rolled quickly to his feet and leaped up again.

Stirk fell back with a smile. "Winged you, did I, Little Bird?" he chanted. "Yes, I did."

Robin returned his staff to his belt and fumbled for more blades. Stirk _would_ have to get his throwing arm. Terrific. _Don't look at him. Don't listen to him. Don't let him have access to a working taser. And above all, given who this is… DON'T PANIC._

"Robin! Get out of here! Now!"

He didn't turn around. "Not alone," he said. He'd lost too many people too recently to even consider it.

"That's an order!"

"Fine. You can fire me when we're out of this."

A low laugh interrupted them. "What's this? Batman… do you _fear_ what I might be planning for your young friend?" Stirk's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Yes… yes, you do. You're afraid that I might do to him… what I'm preparing to do to you. How… delicious."

Robin flung another shuriken, but it fell short of its mark. He readied the staff again.

Stirk's irises seemed to expand as his pupils shrank to tiny points of black against the pale gray. "Come to me, boy," he wheedled. "You want to keep me away from your partner, don't you? Come stop me."

He raised the staff as though it could protect him from the gentle words. "No."

"No? You don't want to stop me?"

Robin started to sweat. "Yes, I do."

"Then come," Stirk invited. "Try."

He wanted to. He wanted to take the creep down fast and hard. Stirk wasn't much bigger than he was, and the man was built on the scrawny side. Physically, Tim knew he could take him. But his feet seemed to be rooted to the floor. _He eats people. He carves out their hearts and he eats them._ _What kind of sick monster…_

Stirk advanced a few steps. "I don't like people raising weapons to me in my own home. Very impolite. Why not drop the stick, and we can have… tea?"

"_DON'T YOU DARE!"_

He'd been about to relax his grip, but Batman's angry shout galvanized him. Robin planted the staff and leaped, vaulting high into the air, to land several feet away from Stirk.

"Nice trick," he snarled. "Let's try something else."

Stirk smiled. "As you like." To Robin's surprise, he lunged forward. "Won't you walk into my parlor?" He asked as he flung a handful of powder in the youth's face.

Robin doubled over, wheezing and coughing.

Stirk quickly wrested the staff away from him, then pressed a ready cloth over the boy's nose and mouth.

Robin struggled for a moment, and then went limp.

Stirk smiled and turned his attention back to the mattress. "He's a feisty one, isn't he?" He asked conversationally. "I'll need to take more of the fight out of him, before I can properly prime him—but fortunately, I know just the place for that. So, if you'll excuse me for a moment or three, I'll be back in a jiffy to give you your injection." He patted Batman's cheek and nodded approvingly as the vigilante flinched. "That's right, let the panic rise slowly, steadily, that's the way to intensify your piquancy." The pat became a pinch. "It's always helpful when the meal is this cooperative, yes it is." He slapped Batman's shoulder jovially. "Now, I'm off to put this one on ice, and then we'll continue for a bit. I think, once the boy has been rendered properly tractable and appreciative of his circumstances, I'll bring him back here so that you can witness my preparations first hand, yes, I think I shall." He beamed and poked the vigilante in the ribs again. "And, of course, once he sees what I've done to you, his imagination will almost certainly improve his _own_ flavor… yes, it will." The smile turned into a leer. "Why, I think you'll both season each other, won't you?"

Another poke, another pat, and Stirk ambled off to half-carry, half drag the unconscious teen out of the room.

Dick swallowed. Then he recommenced rubbing the plastic tie binding his hands against the razor-sharp shuriken that was still embedded in the mattress. He had to get free before Stirk came back.

* * *

The first thing Tim became aware of when he came to was a splitting headache. He leaned forward as best he could in his cramped condition and began to retch. Once his nausea passed, he opened his eyes to try to take in his surroundings. He was sitting in pitch-blackness.

His first coherent thought was that he might be blindfolded, however when he pressed his face to the wall several inches to his left, he discovered that he wasn't. His hands were tied behind his back, and his ankles similarly constrained.

"Hello?"

There was no echo. The space was too small for that. He leaned to his right and met wall almost immediately. He leaned forward again. His head tapped solid wood about eight inches later. Terrific. He slumped back down. He should've run, should've found a payphone and called Gordon again. Or just called 911 and said Stirk was at the coal works and hung up. The cops had to investigate all emergency calls, didn't they?

Instead, he was trapped in the dark somewhere, and Batman was at Stirk's mercy, and when Stirk was finished with Batman...

Tim swallowed. Stirk was going to come back for _him_. And, if he could take out Batman, Robin wasn't exactly going to be a challenge for the deranged cannibal. He began to sweat.

_Stop right now. Keep thinking along those lines and you're doing Stirk's work for him! It's okay to be scared, but you can't let it paralyze you. Even if you're frightened, you can still act!_

He had to get free. Sitting on the floor like this, he was bound to cramp up if he hadn't already, Tim realized. He struggled to rise to his feet by bracing his back against the wall and pushing himself up. Something scraped painfully past his arm as he did. It wasn't sharp, but it was protruding from the wall slightly above waist-height. _Doorknob_, he realized. Stirk must have stuck him in a closet.

Tim thought for a moment. Then he slid back down to the floor and concentrated on maneuvering his bound hands so that they would be in front of him. Once he did that, he'd be able to access the shears in his utility belt. And, once his hands were free, and he could get the flashlight out, he'd be able to see whether his lock-picks would be of any use to him in here...

* * *

"You really are afraid for the child, aren't you?" Stirk called as he entered the room. "How… tenderhearted of you, Batman. And if such was the result of one injection…" He rubbed his hands gleefully together. "…I can't _wait_ for the effects of the next one! I… eh?"

Stirk's eyes grew wide as they took in the empty mattress and snipped ties lying on the floor. "Gone?" He asked aloud. "Somehow, I don't believe you could have gotten far, no I don't." He frowned. "You're probably… HERE!" He said triumphantly, slamming the door against the wall. It encountered no resistance. "No? Well, you're not under the mattress… perhaps you're behind…" He dove toward the kitchen facilities. "…The counter!" The floor on the other side was bare. "Not there, either?" Stirk scratched his chin. "Well, I know you won't leave without the dessert course, so you must be here somewhere!" He yanked open a broom closet. "Not there, either. Hmm… well, perhaps you're…"

A muscular shoulder rammed full-force into his upper back, propelling him into the closet.

"Behind you," Batman snapped. Before Stirk could react, he had the door slammed shut and his full weight pressed against it. A few seconds later, he felt a pressure on the heavy piece of wood behind him. Stirk was trying to shove the door open.

"I don't think so, Cornelius," he snarled. Then, abruptly, he laughed. "You hit the nail on the head, finally," he admitted. "My biggest fear _was_ that you were about to murder my partner, while all I could do was watch. But, Stirk, if there was _one_ thing that could force me to act, even through the fear and despair, and self-doubt, it was the knowledge that if I didn't, you _were_ going to kill him." His own life, if push came to shove, was expendable—and he was ready, should the situation arise, to give it up for someone else. Faced with Stirk's constant barrage of emotional triggers, Dick _had_ come close to despair, and closer to surrender. But in threatening Robin, Stirk had given Batman the impetus he needed both to withstand Stirk's head games, and to bolster that resistance with every fiber of his being.

And it had worked. He was loose, and Stirk was under control. Batman breathed a sigh of relief. Then he used his teeth to remove his gloves and began massaging his wrists as best he could. His fingers were still almost completely numb at the moment, but he knew they'd soon feel as though they were on fire as his circulation was restored.

* * *

The bindings on his ankles yielded easily to his shears. Robin passed the flashlight's beam over the closet door. He grimaced. From the way the screws were aligned, there were two deadbolt locks securing the door. He had a set of lock picks in the suit. He could work on the locks from the inside, but it was going to take time. Time that Batman might not have. Robin swallowed and set to work.

* * *

It was frustrating work. Robin kept struggling to keep the light steady with one hand and turn the screwdriver with the other, all the while praying that the flashlight wouldn't die on him. He was also trying to ignore the pain in his arm where the taser barb was buried. Finally, after what felt like hours, he heard one bolt slide back. Tim breathed a sigh of relief. Then he grimaced. The second deadbolt was about two inches over his head. That was going to make things tougher. If he'd had some running room, he might have tried kicking the door down. But, of course, he didn't have that room. And the door was far too solid for him to consider kicking down without it.

He froze as he heard footsteps approaching the closet. _Damn, not now!_ He dropped the lock pick but kept the flashlight. Maybe he could buy himself a few seconds by shining it in Stirk's eyes.

The footsteps stopped. Robin swallowed. It was going to be hard enough fighting in these close quarters without losing the element of surprise.

"Hey, Hansel," a familiar voice called. "Is that you?"

"Bat…" Tim hesitated, then smiled. "Um… Gretel?"

There was a sigh on the other side of the door, followed by a rueful chuckle. "I deserved that. Sit tight—it's easier to get one of those things open from this end." There was a muffled curse. "Sorry. Hands are still a little numb. Hang on another—there!" A click, a rattle, and the second bolt retracted. The knob turned, the door opened, and Batman was looking in at him.

"Don't worry about the witch. The cops showed up and hauled him off." He smiled wearily. "It's over. For now, anyway."

Tim exhaled with relief.

"Interesting how they knew to come here," Batman said fixing Robin with a steady stare.

Tim shifted. "I… called them before I came. I didn't think Gordon believed me…"

"You called Gordon?"

Tim bit his lip, shrugged his shoulders, and nodded.

"Good thinking."

Robin glanced up, startled. Batman was actually grinning.

"If things had turned out differently and I hadn't gotten loose, GCPD still would have had their man," he continued. His voice grew stern. "Now, about your behavior tonight."

Tim swallowed. "You didn't answer your signal. I tried to call the Titans but—"

"You disobeyed a direct order coming after me."

"I…" He swallowed. Batman was right. "I know." And he'd do it again, should the situation arise.

"Nice work."

Robin blinked. "But… I got captured."

"So did I. Remember?" Batman shook his head, but he was still smiling. "Stirk caught me tonight because I went down to the docks alone, and didn't have someone watching my back. And if you hadn't made it here when you did, I don't know if I would have been able to get free." He clapped Tim once on the shoulder. "Thanks… partner."

Slowly, guardedly, Robin smiled back. "Anytime."

"Ready to head home?"

"You know it."

Batman extended his arm in an 'after you' gesture.

"By the way," he asked as they walked down the corridor, "how _did_ you find me?"

Tim cocked his head and smiled crookedly at his mentor. "Would you believe, the witch left a trail of gingerbread?"

* * *

_Epilogue_

He hadn't spent much time in Bruce's study since he'd returned to Gotham. He'd walked through it on his way into the cave, but never lingered. Dick looked around now, letting his gaze rest on the knickknacks on the fireplace mantel, the rubber tree in the corner, the mahogany desk with its assortment of paperweights, pens and…

Dick picked up the framed eight-by-ten photograph from its customary spot next to the reading lamp. He could remember Lucius Fox snapping the picture of him and Bruce years ago, on the day that his seventh grade science fair project had placed first in the junior high division. Bruce had his arm around Dick's shoulders, while Dick held up his first prize ribbon. It was one of the few times that Dick could remember Bruce not just smiling his 'polite society' smile, but grinning from ear to ear. Afterwards, he could remember Bruce telling him that there was no limit to what he'd accomplish in life, so long as he didn't lose faith in himself.

He bit his lip, remembering Bruce's final taped message to him. Dick hadn't wanted to believe that he could be Batman—that he could truly do justice to the cape and cowl. Bruce's last words hadn't convinced him. Tim's speech hadn't convinced him. But several nights ago, when he'd finally subdued Stirk, something had changed within his mindset. Maybe Bruce would have done things differently, but that was all right. Dick wasn't Bruce. But that night… he _had_ been Batman.

Dick reverently touched the glass covering the photograph. "You win," he said quietly. "I guess I can do this after all. But I suppose you don't mind if I don't always do things exactly the way you would have?" His lips twitched. "I really hope that was a 'yes'… but I guess it doesn't really matter after all. I mean, if you gave me the suit, then you have to trust me with it." He broke off. "What I mean is… _I_ have to trust me with it. And I think I'm starting to." He replaced the picture on the desk. "And, I think you were right: I'm going to do this just fine." His eyes started to blur. "I just wish you could be here to see it."

He flicked off the light switch before he closed the door.


End file.
